“But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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